


The Loneliness of Stars

by ZaliaChimera



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Affection, Archivist Jon, Caretaking, Fear, Loneliness, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Monsters, Monsters in love, Sacrifice, Teaching, Transformation, greenwich observatory, happy monsters, hunger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 01:11:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20480513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: ”How do you do it? How do you… find someone?”Jon blinks slowly at him. His eyes are very dark. He reminds Martin of a tiger he’d seen in the zoo once, sated for now but never safe.“It’s like… an instinct. You’ll just know.”Martin makes his first offering to the Lonely.





	The Loneliness of Stars

_”How do you do it? How do you… find someone?”_

_Jon blinks slowly at him. His eyes are very dark. He reminds Martin of a tiger he’d seen in the zoo once, sated for now but never safe._

_“It’s like… an instinct. You’ll just know.”_

The frost-rimed grass beneath Martin’s feet hisses and cracks as he walks. Winter has hit London with a vengeance this week, icy pavements and freezing rain and bitter winds. The cold has driven most people indoors, to huddle together for comfort, and Greenwich park is all but abandoned apart from the hardiest of photographers trying to get a shot of the observatory in it’s icy splendour, and a few tourists determined to make the most of their holiday.

The hill is steep, the path slippery. A family wrapped up in scarves and hats and gloves give him a strange look as he passes. His light shirt isn’t exactly appropriate for the weather, but he doesn’t mind. He smiles at them as he passes, waves to their little boy, and continues climbing.

He pauses a little further up the hill to admire the view. Greenwich Observatory is quite lovely, an odd mixture of austere and whimsical, with the seeping curve of the dome and the famous red-gold ball on the tower. It’s the sort of place he might write poetry about. Maybe later.

For now, he keeps heading towards it.

_”How do I know something like that? I’m not you.”_

_A soft snort escapes Jon, and he smiles. It’s a soft expression, and painfully fond._

_“How does a hawk or a wolf or a snake know which to choose? It isn’t really a conscious thing.”_

The Observatory itself is a little busier, inside out of the chill. Martin taps his card and collects his ticket, and ignores the way the lady at the till shivers when her fingers brush against his.

The itch starts as he’s queueing up for the Prime Meridian. It’s a little odd to queue up to stand on an imaginary line, a fiction inflicted on the world and worn into the grooves of it by time and the weight of belief. 

Huh, maybe that isn’t so strange after all. Not when he thinks about what he knows.

The itch, or maybe _ache_ is a better word for it, starts in his belly. It’s mild, ignorable, and he takes his place standing over the engraved metal line that splits the world. He even fumbles out his phone and takes a selfie to show Jon later. He likes that sort of thing. Or at least, he likes it when Martin shows him photos, which is better.

He heads indoors, and the ache spreads to his hollow chest. 

_”And what when I’ve found someone? What then? I can’t just ask like you do.”_

_Jon’s hand splays against his chest, over the heart he isn’t sure he has anymore. His fingers are so warm and he looks so beautiful. _

_“You’ll feel it here, and you’ll do what feels right.”_

The photographs in the astronomy exhibition are stunning and do absolutely nothing to catch Martin’s attention. The ache has grown, filling him and reminding him how _hungry_ he is. It’s a feeling that has been nestling behind his ribs for days, weeks, and is now flowering, filling him with a deep need that he knows no greasy burger or fine cuisine could satisfy.

Martin ignores it as best he can and dutifully reads the labels next to each photograph of stars and galaxies and planets. His gaze keeps slipping away from the words, and when he drags his attention back, half of the labels are obscured and blurred, reduced to a series of names and dates with all personality and warmth stripped away.

He turns away from the photo (The Lonely Star, heh), and gives a soft huff when he realises that the room is full of creeping fog. He can see the shapes of the few other visitors, but they’re dim and grey and hard to focus on. Unimportant. He wanders a little more, follows that tug of hunger in his chest, nudges past them to see what happens. They shiver and pull their coats around themselves more tightly, but no-one says a word. 

He turns into another room, small and empty except for one person.

The ache inside him turns into a howl.

_”I’m scared to do it.”_

_“Why?” Jon tilts his head, regards him curiously, and it wasn’t so long ago that he was just as filled with doubt and fear. Martin longs for the certainty he sees in his eyes now._

_“I’m afraid I’ll lose myself. That I won’t be me anymore.”_

_“You’re never the same person that you were. You aren’t the Martin Blackwood that I met in Research.”_

_And he isn’t the Jonathan Sims that Martin had met there either._

_“I’m afraid of giving up part of myself.”_

_Jon strokes his cheek. “Haven’t you already given up everything you are?”_

The fog curls around him and everything is honed to razor sharp focus as he approaches. 

The man, youngish, stands alone admiring one of the old paintings. Martin doesn’t care what of. He stands behind him, and he can _feel_ it, the loneliness, drifting off him like seafoam and drab winter nights.

He’s new to London, away from home for the first time for university. New flat with people he doesn’t know, new city that he doesn’t know the rhythm of. New friends who aren’t yet friends. They were meant to meet him here, but never showed up, not even a text. 

Martin closes his eyes and drinks it in. 

He feels the answering pang of loneliness in his own chest, the tug towards what he needs and what feels right. 

He pulls out his phone, and isn’t surprised to see the stranger’s number already filled in. He types quickly, and presses send.

The man’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out, hope bright around him. 

**They don’t even remember your name.**

The man takes a shuddering breath and Martin basks in that moment of vibrant aching abandonment. His eyes drop closed as he savours it, lets it fill that void in his chest. It’s like the best meal he’s ever had, or the afterglow of an orgasm, where everything is soft and hazy and perfect.

He breathes, tongue flicking out over his lips, and he wonders… he wonders why he held out for so long when it could feel like this. 

Martin pats the man on the shoulder. He doesn’t notice. Doesn’t recognise it as the last touch he’ll receive, as he returns to an endless lonely London. 

_”Does it hurt?”_

_“Yes. For a while. Becoming something else always hurts.”_

_“Oh.”_

_“But it feels good too. Like sloughing skin after you’ve been sunburnt.”_

_He imagines it, remembers the feeling of skin flaking away leaving something new and unblemished in its wake._

No-one sees him as he walks back down the hill towards Greenwich. No-one looks at him on the tube although he dutifully taps his Oyster card at the barrier. A woman (recently dumped by her fiance) starts crying when he gets on but Martin settles back in his seat and drowses softly, his belly and being full and satisfied.

The cafe near the Institute is busy at this time of day, but there’s an empty seat waiting for him. He slides into it, and Jon smiles at him from across the table. 

Jon looks how Martin feels; sleepy and comfortable with indulgence, and Martin wonders what unfortunate victim he’s fed on, story excised from them, living and bloody.

“That felt… it felt good,” Martin says. He twists his jumper between his fingers, guilt starting to gnaw at the edges. It’s strange. It isn’t guilt for what he’s done exactly, but guilt over not feeling guilty about it.

“It does,” Jon agrees. He reaches out to brush his fingers against Martin’s. 

“Does it always feel like that?” He stares down at Jon’s thumb rubbing against his wrist, gentle and soothing.

“I think I might hate myself for this tomorrow.” So long spent trying to outrun, outthink, the monsters, to cling to humanity and protect Jon’s, and here they are.

“Maybe,” Jon says, and Martin appreciates the blunt truth. “But it gets easier. And it’s instinct. It just… feels right, like something clicks into place.”

Martin grasps Jon’s hand and curls their fingers together. His fingers feel so warm against the chill of his own skin, like he’s burning up. “It felt like I was meant to do it. To… feed Forsaken.”

“It’s the same for me,” Jon replies. “It’s what we are.”

The rest of the cafe is fading in, the noise and colour creeping back into the world. But Martin only has eyes for Jon right now. “Um… can I stay with you. For a while? I don’t want to deal with tomorrow alone.” 

There’ll be plenty enough time to be alone later.

Jon raises their joined hand and kisses his knuckles. It makes Martin flush, and his lips curl into a shy smile. “Of course. I’d be glad to.”

_“Will you help me, Jon?”_

_Jon smiles, sweet and adoring and monstrous. “Always.”_

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [Tumblr](https://zalia.tumblr.com/)


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